A Bride To Honor. Arlene James
“Dwight D. Eisenhower?”
“I’m not sure the military thing is for me.”
“Not even the Rebel soldier from the Civil War?”
He lifted both hands helplessly. “Especially not the Rebel soldier. We’re trying to expand beyond the Southern states at Barclay Bakeries, and there will be prospective clients at this party.”
“Politically incorrect, huh?”
“I wouldn’t want to chance it.”
“I guess the Yankee Blue is out of the question, too, then.”
“And the American Indian, I’m afraid.”
“Hmm.” She squinted at his very dark hair and reached for an idea. “I suppose we could try a Chinese emperor. A little makeup around the eyes and a pigtail...”
He merely folded his hands together, clearly underwhelmed.
“Rudolph Valentino as the sheikh?”
He considered that, then shook his head. “Not for this occasion.” He looked around him. “And no gypsies.”
“Prince Albert?”
“Wasn’t he bald?”
“Castro. No forget that.”
“And nix on Joseph Stalin just in case he’s your next inspiration.”
She made a face at him and was rewarded with that quick grin. “Stalin,” she murmured. “Russia. Hmm. Oh, my gosh,” she said, snapping her fingers. “Remember Tony Curtis in that marvelous old movie about the cossacks? Yul Brynner played his father, I think, and they jumped their horses over wider and wider gorges in a test of bravery.”
“Taras Bulba!” he said, coming to his feet. “Didn’t he die at the end?”
She shrugged. “He still got the girl.”
“Oh, yeah.” He folded his arms, one finger tapping his chin. “Yeah. I think I can do that.” The idea seemed to grow on him, and he nodded enthusiastically. “Well, let’s see it.”
Oops. Cassidy grimaced apologetically. “Uh, I don’t exactly have one in stock, but I can make one up for you.”
He stroked his chin. “I suppose it would be an original, just for me.”
Cassidy relaxed and smiled, even though it meant research for which she didn’t have time, not to mention designing, cutting and sewing—and fittings. She reminded herself that this was for William and said resignedly, “Exactly.”
“Excellent!” He rubbed his hands together enthusiastically. “So, how do we begin?”
“With research, actually.”
“Research! Very good. Where should I begin? I mean, what era historically?”
She blinked at him. “You don’t have to do the research yourself. That’s my job.”
“Well, how will I know you’re doing it correctly?” he asked.
She chewed the inside of her cheek. “Good point.”
He laughed. “It’s not that I don’t trust you. I’m just something of a purist, I guess. Anyway, I like to know things, and I don’t want to look like an idiot if someone asks me about my costume.”
“Very well,” she said, oddly touched. “You might want to research the movie, too, then. In fact, it’s more likely you’ll be asked about that than the historical significance of the costume.”
He considered this, nodding. “I see your point. It’s a pity that people always seem to be more interested in the movie than the history. I think we diminish ourselves with our lack of interest in history.”
“You know, I hadn’t thought that,” she said, impressed. He seemed oddly pleased. “Ah. Well. I, um, guess I’m off to do some research. Uh, what comes after that?”
“Oh!” Cassidy realized she hadn’t thought about fitting appointments. “We’ll have to have fittings, of course.”
“But, um, isn’t there something before that? I mean, I will get a chance to approve the overall design beforehand, won’t I? Or is that too—”
“No! No, it’s fine. Really. In fact, it’ll probably save time... really.”
He smiled at her. “Fine. So, um, when do I get to see the designs?”
Oh, jeepers, she had so much to do, deliveries to make, pickups at the dry cleaners, various mending, several alterations. She tried to think, then heard herself saying, “End of the week?”
“How about Thursday?” he suggested. “Friday’s pretty sewed up for me.”
Sewed up was an apt description for Cassidy’s whole week, but she shrugged, anyway. “Thursday, then. How about late in the day, say, after five?”
He put a finger to one temple, thinking. “I wouldn’t want to keep you late. When do you take lunch?”
“I beg your pardon?” Lunch? What was that?
“Before or after good old Tony?”
“Er, after.”
“About one, then?”
She tried to reason out why this was not a good idea, but all she could think was that Tony had morning classes on Thursday. He wouldn’t want to, but he could come in by one. She nodded dumbly.
“Great. Shall we go out, or it would be better if I brought something in?”
He was going to feed her? “Oh, you don’t need to—”
“Nonsense. I have to eat even if you don’t, and frankly, a good meal wouldn’t hurt you any. Not that you’re too thin! Heavens, no! I just meant...” His gaze traveled over her tall, slender form appreciatively. “Well,” he said, absently straightening his tie, “you obviously don’t have a problem with your weight. In fact, I’d bet you’re one of those naturally slender females other women just hate.”
Her mouth was hanging open. She couldn’t help it. Unless she’d lost her mind, which was a distinct possibility, he was actually flirting with her. Her! Cassidy Jane Penno. “Uh, yab, dun, er...”
He just laughed and chucked her under the chin, then abruptly checked his watch. “Gosh, I have to go.” He pointed a finger at her. “Thursday. One o’clock. I’ll take care of lunch. Right?”
“Ah, erp, sure!”
“Great!” He flashed her a wink and backed toward the door, turning, finally, to hurry from the room.
Astonished, Cassidy flung an arm over the rolling rack. Then slowly her face crumpled. “Such a brilliant conversationalist, Miss Penno,” she mocked in a nasal voice. “No wonder your brother doesn’t trust you further than he can throw you backward through a hoop. Holy cow.” She smacked herself in the forehead with the heel of her hand. First the glop and then the ers and duhs. And she had to have designs by Thursday! Thursday lunch!
Lunch with Paul Spencer. Holy cow!
Absently Paul tapped in the code that unlocked the driver’s door of his sleek black Jaguar and slid beneath the wheel. Whatever had possessed him to insist on a luncheon date with Cassidy Penno? She was an engaging young woman, quite lovely even if she didn’t know it—and he rather liked that she didn’t—and fun in a way he hadn’t encountered in a very long time. Her creativity and her wholesomeness were refreshing. None of that changed the fact that he was practically engaged to Betina. Practically but not quite, damn her.
Now, now, he chided himself, as he started up the engine and put the sleek auto in motion, that’s no way to think about your